


Dinner

by Ship221B



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, I Ship It, John Cooking, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Nervous John, OTP Feels, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Protective John Watson, Romance, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, Slow Burn, Swooning, Walking, gets there eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4851560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ship221B/pseuds/Ship221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary's away for a few days, so John's staying at Baker Street. He decides it's time to tell Sherlock how he feels, and starts by cooking dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into fanfic. I'd love to hear what you think! :)

John sits in his armchair, with his laptop on his knees. He stopped typing the latest entry for his blog a while ago, and now he is absent-mindedly watching the rain, drop after drop, following the same paths down the window. It has been one of those grey London autumn days where buses and coloured umbrellas seem to be the only contrast to the sky, the drizzle, and the solemn buildings. Now, as dusk falls, and the sound of the evening traffic becomes louder, he is deep in thought. Not about the rain, but – _again_ – about Sherlock. Sherlock has been out all afternoon, talking through the end of the Moriarty case with Mycroft and Lestrade. Mary is taking tonight’s sleeper train to visit friends in Scotland, so John is staying over in Baker Street for a few days. 

Something sharp twists in the centre of John’s chest as he considers the two people he loves most in the world. ‘Shut up,’ he tells himself firmly, ‘and breathe’. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes as his head drops to his chest. Exhale. Inhale. And as he exhales again, he lifts his head, opens his eyes, and snaps the computer shut.

John looks at the clock. It’s nearly seven. He reaches for his phone.

_About to make dinner. Any idea when you’ll be back?_

He puts the laptop on the desk and wanders to the kitchen while he waits for a response.

Nothing.

He switches on the oven, and opens the fridge. He looks past the experiments, noting a new one involving a liver, and pulls out a few things that will pass for ingredients: mushrooms, onions, celery, garlic, white wine. Checks his phone again, knowing full well that it hasn't pinged. Still nothing, but he decides to cook for two anyway. If Sherlock isn't back by the time he’s finished cooking, he can keep it warm for him. But if Sherlock does come home, he wants to eat with him, to hear about his day. Because no matter how infuriating, untidy and uncommunicative Sherlock can be, John has always been, and will always be, devoted to this man and utterly fascinated by him.

He had known it from the start. The information about John that Sherlock had observed and deduced within two minutes of their meeting was incredible and, by the time he’d been to visit the flat for the first time, John had already told him he was brilliant (four times) and amazing (seven). By the time they’d got to Angelo’s, he was awestruck by Sherlock as he tried to figure him out. Already impressed enough – devoted enough – to refuse bribes from Mycroft and kill the cabbie who threatened Sherlock’s life. But he was in a daze the whole of that first week, and then they were deep in case after case and the time was never right, and The Thing was never quite said, at least not to Sherlock’s face, only to his gravestone. When Sherlock had come back, John had come close to saying something, but by then there was Mary, and John had made promises to her, and he knew the right thing to do, the honourable thing, was to keep his word, even though he knew he felt much more for Sherlock than for her.

And now that Mary is away, he has had a bit of space to think, and while Sherlock is between cases, John has resolved to talk to him… _properly_. For all Sherlock says about sentiment, John knows there is, at least where he is concerned, some emotion under that air of detached disinterest, because of what he said at the wedding, and the looks they exchanged that day. John can read Sherlock at least as well as Mycroft now, and he trusts Sherlock with his whole being, even if he can't always predict his reactions. So as soon as he has a chance, he is going to have The Talk. To properly lay out his own feelings, hoping Sherlock can say something similar. Hoping not to be called an idiot. Hoping he can get through what he want to say without the tears escaping, as they have every time he’s practised his speech in his head.

He chops the vegetables and starts them cooking, then measures out the rice and adds it to the pan. He feels clammy. The sharp, twisting feeling in his chest comes back. Impulsively John grabs a glass from the cupboard, pouring himself some of the wine and drinking it too quickly. No good. Leaving the vegetables and rice frying gently in the pan for a moment, he rubs his lips and chin as he paces from the kitchen to the window. Just as he reaches the desk, his phone pings.

_Just left NSY. Home in 15 minutes. What’s for dinner? SH_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cooking continues, and then they eat. John is a very good cook. Things are looking promising.

Just as John is adding more stock to the pan, Sherlock strides through the door and hangs up his coat, his hands tugging the scarf from his neck. John glances up, and as he catches sight of Sherlock divesting himself of clothing – _any_ clothing – he feels an anxious flutter in his chest. ‘Physiological changes associated with activity in the sympathetic division of the autonomic nervous system,’ he mutters under his breath.

‘Risotto. Ready in about ten minutes,’ says Sherlock, correctly surmising the menu and timings with a single flick of his eyes around the flat. ‘Drink?’

John takes this as his cue to put the kettle on. He fills it up, puts it on its base and flicks the switch, all while trying to think about what he is going to say this evening and how each choice of words might play out. All those possibilities get into a tangle behind his temples and he rubs his head, exhaling. He opens his mouth and the words tumble out on their own. ‘Busy day?’

‘Busy but dull.’

John adds a wine glass for Sherlock to the table and fills it up, partly to stop himself drinking the rest of the bottle. He is glad of the excuse of tending to the risotto, meaning that he doesn't have to look Sherlock in the eye. ‘So were you stuck at the yard all day?’, he asks, pouring stock into the pan.

‘Yes. I had to spell out how it all worked to Lestrade four times. Spent the whole time in a meeting room with a platter of unpleasant sandwiches from the canteen,’ says Sherlock.

‘Ah,’ says John, putting teabags in mugs. ‘So you can manage some risotto then?’ Hope swells in his ribcage as Sherlock comes into the kitchen, inhaling the fruits of John’s labours and giving an approving nod.

‘Definitely,’ Sherlock replies, as the kettle clicks off. Sherlock makes the tea while John continues to stir the risotto. ‘How about you? Any drama at the surgery today?’ 

‘Varicose veins, a heart murmur, a lad with chickenpox and a handful of check-ups for repeat prescriptions,’ says John. ‘I haven't had any nice tropical diseases for months,’ he smiles. ‘Bit disappointing, really.’

Sherlock returns the smile, fishes out the teabag, takes his mug over to his chair and picks up a paper, while John adds the butter and parmesan to the steaming risotto. The creamy aroma is filling the flat, and he is feeling confident about the power of a good meal to help the conversation along. He adds a lid to the pan for the last few minutes of cooking, picks up his tea and perches on the arm of his chair, opposite Sherlock. ‘Want a hand with the crossword?’ he asks with a wink, knowing full well that Sherlock has never needed more than ten minutes to complete the _Times_ cryptic crossword in his life and would never dream of accepting anyone’s input.

‘Very funny, John,’ says Sherlock, and takes a swig of tea. He raises an eyebrow. ‘I think cooking is more your forté, don't you?’

John grins, holding his mug with both hands. ‘Yeah, I s’pose.’ He gulps his tea, feeling the anxiety about the conversation he wants to have gathering in his bad shoulder, and hoping that Sherlock won't pick up on it. ‘So. Dinner will only be a couple of minutes. I hope you’re hungry.’ He wanders back to set the table and tidy up the kitchen a bit.

Sherlock fills in a couple more answers to the crossword, stands up, and leaves the paper and pen on his chair. The flat has steamed up a little, as it often does when they cook with the windows closed, and he removes his suit jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair at the desk. He moves over to the kitchen and takes a seat at the table, examining the label of the wine bottle. John pretends to be entirely uninterested in Sherlock’s purple shirt, but inside he is jumping like an overexcited child. He takes a deep breath of steam as he lifts the lid on the finished risotto, taking the opportunity to calm himself as much as to appreciate the aroma. Taking out two plates, he piles risotto on to them, and places the more attractive of the two plates in front of Sherlock. 

Sherlock lifts a forkful of rice to his lips – _those lips, thinks John_ – and he hums with pleasure at the deliciousness. John beams, delighted to have created a meal which brings joy to the man he loves. ‘Is it all right?’ he asks, modestly, and is treated to a little moan of pleasure from an enraptured Sherlock, who seems to think it is the finest food he has ever tasted. John is battling to think about something – anything – other than making Sherlock moan in other circumstances and blurts out, ‘Mrs Hudson made us some scones earlier. Fancy a walk after dinner and we can get some jam and cream for them?’ 

Sherlock registers that John is a little pinker than usual, even allowing for the cooking, and that he is jabbering. He starts clocking through the five possible explanations – the wine, embarassment, anxiety, anger, arousal – when John realises this is happening and tries to distract him before he deduces. He wants to wait until they’re outside to have that conversation, where they don't have to look directly at each other, and they both have the option of walking very fast in the other direction if things don’t work out as he hopes. Neither of them would enjoy being cornered, he reasons, so he starts speaking again, fast. ‘Have you finished that blog post on bullets? I’ve got a couple of old army mates who might like to read it when it’s up.’

Sherlock is unfazed by the questions and sufficiently distracted to answer: ‘Yes, jam and cream. We could get it from that little deli on Park Street.’ _Exactly what I had in mind_ , thinks John. And yes, I’ve finished the blog. Would you check it through before I post it? I expect you know quite a lot of it already but it’s always helpful to have a proofreader.’

‘Sure,’ John nods, relieved.


	3. Chapter 3

They put on their coats and scarves, jog down the seventeen steps, and pull the door shut behind them. The rain has eased off now, though the air is still damp, and the dark street is lit by shopfronts and streetlamps. Sherlock puts on his black leather gloves as they walk wordlessly to the end of Baker Street, cross the outer circle road, and enter the park, at which point conversation resumes. ‘Anticlockwise, I think,’ says Sherlock, ‘so we can do the shopping at the end instead of carrying it around with us.’

‘Works for me,’ replies John, nerves starting to resurface. _Come on, Watson_ , he tells himself. _We have to have this conversation tonight._ His conscience about Mary is nagging him again, but he pushes that aside as best he can. He wants to be honest with Sherlock. He owes him that after everything that happened with Magnussen and Moriarty. He runs through the words he’s been preparing for the last three weeks, hoping they come out right, hoping Sherlock will at least understand even if he doesn't reciprocate.

‘So, um, Sherlock?’ he starts, falteringly, ‘Cou– could we have a chat?’

‘Are you going to ask about my health again? Because I can assure you I am perfectly well,’ Sherlock says, with an air of amusement and resignation at his friend’s longstanding concern.

‘No, no, not that,’ replies the doctor, smiling nervously and glancing up at Sherlock’s face. ‘Mycroft and Lestrade have been helping me keep tabs on you on that front, anyway.’

There is a mild hurrumph at this.

‘I… I wanted to talk about you and me, actually,’ says John, drawing on his military training to force himself to sound calmer than he feels.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Sherlock…’ – _here goes_ – ‘…when I said you were my best friend, I meant it. There has never been anyone like you, I know you said I could trust Mary but I’m still not really over what she did to you, and how she lied to me, and, well, I’d rather be with you. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Sherlock? I mean, you’re not just the best and the wisest man I’ve ever known … you … you’re the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Um…’ He trails off. _Shit, that wasn't quite what I planned to say, I came on a bit strong, he’s going to run a mile, I can feel it… why is he not saying anything, oh, I’ve buggered everything up and now he won't speak to me…_

And then he can’t take it any more and he looks up at Sherlock, intending just to see if he can read something, anything, in his face, and _oh, wow,_ Sherlock is gazing at him and maybe this isn't so bad after all. John raises his eyebrows in a ‘Well?’ expression. Sherlock continues to smile for a bit longer than is comfortable before he finally speaks.

‘John, I… I… well, that is, I would like to give that some very serious consideration.’ The top of his nose crinkles as he processes the consequences. ‘Does Mary know?’

‘Not yet. Did _you_?’

‘I had an idea. Give me some credit.’ Sherlock grins. ‘So, you planned to seduce me with wine and your excellent risotto, did you?’

‘Kind of. Well maybe not seduce, exactly, but I wanted to remind you that I can look after you. I worry about you when you’re on your own. You know what you’re like. And to be honest…’ – John looks up into those eyes, wide in the dimly lit park – ‘…I love cooking for you. It makes me happy. There.’ He allows himself to grin at Sherlock. ‘I just like being useful to you. You’re amazing.’

They keep walking, both men smiling to themselves and exchanging glances as they allow themselves to consider what might be. Sherlock takes off his leather gloves and puts them in the pockets of his Belstaff, then reaches out, eyes fixed ahead, and interlaces his fingers with John’s. A tingle passes between them as they touch. Neither needs to say anything for the moment. John gives Sherlock’s hand a squeeze and purses his lips, breathing out with relief. As this, Sherlock slips his arm around John’s shoulder with all the affection he can muster, understanding something of the courage it took for John to speak up.


	4. Chapter 4

They cross Chester Road, fingers entwined again, continuing their circuit of the park. ‘Go on then,’ says John, ‘tell me how you knew. And when. I thought I was doing really well at keeping it to myself! When did you guess?’

‘I don’t guess, Dr Watson, I observe, as well you know,’ Sherlock says, good-naturedly, in a low voice. ‘I started to surmise after I came back, and I saw the way you looked between me and Mary as though you were trying to choose, every time we were all in the same room. And then…’ Sherlock’s voice becomes quieter still – ‘And then you chose her.’ 

John closes his eyes and his head drops. Sherlock continues.

‘And at the wedding, when I told you I thought Mary was pregnant – the look on your face said it all. You thought it was all final then. As did I.’

John nods, keeping his eyes closed, recalling everything exactly as Sherlock describes. He feels a twinge of guilt at hearing Mary’s name, and a worse one at being thankful for the miscarriage – almost certainly caused by the stress of the revelations about her past.

‘When we were waiting for Mary at Leinster Gardens,’ he continues, ‘I considered saying something more, but I wanted you to decide for yourself when you had a clear head. There was too much… emotion that night.’

‘You wanted to make sure I was being logical?’ chuckles John. ‘That’s very you.’ He looks up at Sherlock’s face again, stops, and take hold of his other hand. ‘Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for waiting.’

‘What else was I going to do?’ smiles Sherlock. ‘Run off with Molly Hooper? Hardly.’

‘Well, thank you,’ says John, and he considers kissing Sherlock, but wants to hear more first, to make sure it really is mutual, because Sherlock hasn’t actually spoken about his own feelings yet. John settles for putting an arm around his waist. ‘Is this okay?’ he asks hesitantly, as they continue walking. ‘You don’t need to put on an act for me, you know. I’ve seen you do that with Janine, and I am not selling my story to anyone if this doesn’t work out. So let’s just be straight with each other, alright?’

Sherlock nods. ‘John, what they say about me is true. I’ve never… that is… I haven't had a romantic relationship before. I’ve seen what they do to people’s head space and I always wanted to keep the maximum capacity available for my hard drive, you know?’ He knocks his knuckles against the side of his head.

John looks down, confused. _Shit, he’s trying to let me down gently. Should I let go? I should never have said anything. But he knew anyway! At least we’ve been honest._ ‘Okay…’ he says, concerned about what’s coming next.

‘But as I said,’ continues Sherlock, ‘I’d never expected to be anyone’s best friend, and you have already shown me that you are loyal, and trustworthy, and really rather good in the kitchen… not to mention…’

John’s phone beeps. He reaches into his pocket.

_Just leaving Euston. I’ll phone when I get there. M x_

‘Sorry, it’s Mary,’ says John, guiltily. ‘I’d better reply.’

Sherlock stands aside while John texts back.

_Sleep well. Give my love to A &C. J x_

‘Sorry, where were we?’ asks John, taking hold of Sherlock’s hand again as they continue walking.

‘I was saying that I trust you. I’ve never doubted your friendship, your reliability… I… You’ve changed me. I have a friend now.’

‘And how do you feel about that? Have I just messed that up? I’m sorry, this is all just a bit… awkward, isn’t it.’

Sherlock stops walking and gently touches John’s elbow. John stops and turns, and they face each other in the dark, both men full of earnestness and hope.

‘John Hamish Watson. You are my best and only friend. You have saved my life repeatedly, and I gave you my word that I would always be there for you. As you know…’ Sherlock takes a deep breath in through his nostrils, ‘I hold you in the highest possible regard, and it would be my honour to… continue our relationship in a less platonic manner.’

Relief washes over John, and he hugs Sherlock tightly around his chest, inhaling the smell of the man he loves. ‘Thank you,’ he says quietly. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’

Sherlock puts his arms around John’s shoulders, and sinks his face into John’s hair. ‘Let’s walk along the canal,’ he says, ‘and we can talk about the practicalities.’

‘Okay,’ John replies, happily, soaking in every moment of this experience, wanting to bottle the giddy feeling in his stomach. 

They walk north, down the twisting alleyway to the canal towpath at Camden Lock. It’s quieter here, and the towpath is narrow, so – not that either of them needs an excuse – they walk along with an arm around each other. John can feel his own heartbeat hammering in his head, and smiles at the adrenaline and endorphins whizzing around his bloodstream.

The sky has cleared after the rain, and the light from the streetlamps, the moon, and the occasional occupied narrowboat feels appropriately intimate. John steers Sherlock on to a bench beneath a willow tree and they look at each other, both taking in every detail of the face in front of them.

‘Have you ever fancied living on a narrowboat?’ asks John, admiring the elegance of the crimson boat on the opposite bank, and nodding at it. 

‘Damp,’ says Sherlock, pulling John rapidly out of a romantic fantasy, ‘rubbish for violins and bad shoulders, and probably not a good place to shoot holes in the walls,’ he smiles.

John grins. ‘Good point.’ He leans in to kiss Sherlock, and slides his hand into his curls. Sherlock reciprocates – tenderly, unsure of himself – and runs his right hand through John’s hair, holding him close around his shoulders with his left arm. Both are so gentle with each other, so tentative and loving. As their first kiss ends, John cups Sherlock’s face in his hands. 

‘I love you, Sherlock Holmes.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vatican cameos. :)

Sherlock has never felt so contented and he is trying to commit every detail to memory as they continue to kiss on the bench by the canal. He is certain that his pupils are dilated, he can feel his pulse racing, and for once, he simply doesn’t care.

John glances at his watch. It’s after ten now. ‘Um, those scones… I don’t think the deli’ll be open now,’ he chuckles.

Sherlock stands up, pulling John to his feet too. ‘We can use that little 24-hour shop instead,’ he says. ‘The one on Lodge Road. Come on.’ 

They continue along the towpath for a few minutes and then up the slope to Prince Albert Road and along to St John’s Wood Church, where they cross over. As they cross the road, John looks up at Sherlock, unable to keep the smile off his face. He is so relived that the conversation went well and everything is finally out in the open. Sherlock catches John looking and allows his mouth to switch into a smile, too. He squeezes John’s hand in affirmation.

They walk around the corner to the tiny shop with the displays of last-edition newspapers and crates of bottled water outside under a green awning. The street is quiet, just a couple of solitary joggers returning home from the park, earphones in, oblivious to the two of them. John and Sherlock drop hands to walk through the narrow shop doorway, and John heads for the fridge to find some cream. The proprietor is watching a small TV behind the counter. The news. Wait a second. Sherlock’s mind is racing.

‘John,’ he says loudly and urgently. ‘John, come here.’ John knows that tone and is at Sherlock’s side in a second. He follows Sherlock’s line of sight to the television and _oh, no. No no no no NO_. There are floodlit aerial pictures of a dark blue train on its side, having slid down an embankment, with emergency services people in high-vis clothes and stretchers and bodies covered with blankets and blue flashing lights and the caption scrolling across the screen in red and white reads : ‘Scotrail sleeper derails: 58 dead’. 

_Mary._

‘Mary…’ John gasps.

The reporter is holding his earpiece in order to hear what is being said to him over the noise of sirens and air ambulance helicopters. ‘…I’ve just had confirmation from the police that 64 people have died at the scene, though they are expecting that number to rise as the evening continues, because of the speed the train was travelling and the impact when it derailed. It looks at the moment as though the points were set incorrectly, though of course there will be a full investigation in due course.’

John is rooted to the spot. He pulls out his phone and calls Mary. It rings five times and then goes to voicemail. He tries again. Still nothing. And again.

Sherlock has been scouring the picture for more information than is being reported, but listening to John. As John hangs up for the third time, he takes his eyes off the screen and tentatively puts a hand on John's back, guiding him out of the shop without buying anything. John is not the right colour. He looks like he might be sick. He has to get him home.

He hails a cab, even though they could normally walk it in ten minutes. Once they’re inside, he holds John’s knee while John continues to try to reach Mary. Voicemail again.

‘Mary, if you get this, please call me – I need to know you’re OK.’ Sherlock can see guilt and fear in John’s face and he has no idea of an appropriate thing to say, so he continues to hold John’s knee with one hand, and with the other hand, he texts Mycroft.

_Mary W on crashed train? Dead? Please send info. SH_

There’s no need to use tact or subtlety with Mycroft, but he doesn’t want John to see something so blunt, so he deletes the message from his phone once it’s sent.

The cab pulls up outside Speedy’s café, and Sherlock hands the driver a ten-pound note as they get out, not waiting for the change. John stands in a daze on the pavement, and Sherlock needs to unlock the door and help him up the stairs and into his chair. Sherlock’s mind is racing again, with nineteen thoughts happening at once. His John is upset. What’s going on? His phone pings.

_CCTV and passenger list confirm MW on train, coach D, but not (yet?) at hospital. Investigating. MH_

John looks at Sherlock questioningly. 

‘Mycroft says she was on the train, but isn’t on a hospital list yet. He’ll keep us posted,’ says Sherlock, trying to reassure John.

‘Thank you,’ says John, weakly.

Tea, thinks Sherlock. John needs tea. He leaves John for a moment to put the kettle on. 

John stays in his chair, rubbing his face and trying to think about what he needs to do. _Is Mary dead? I might not have loved her but I didn’t want this…_

 _Or…hold on. Is it an elaborate hoax – another pretend death? Has Mary done a Sherlock on me?_ John doesn’t know what to think any more. He buries his head in his hands as Sherlock brings his tea and puts it on the table in front of him. Sherlock sits on the arm of John’s chair and silently puts his arm around John’s shoulders, feeling John trembling. 

‘This – this wasn’t part of the plan,’ John stammers out. ‘What’s going on here, Sherlock?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and thanks so much for the kudos and comments. I tested the route of John and Sherlock's walk in chapters 2-4 yesterday, so there will be photos once I work out how to add them!


End file.
